In the Company of Wolves
by Melissa Alexander
Summary: Fair of face and kissed by fire, Sansa Stark has no shortage of suitors. A chance encounter with a mysterious stranger in the woods sets her on a path of passion and dangerous intrigue. Is Jon her salvation or her damnation? Perhaps he is both. But Jon harbors a dark secret—and he's sworn to protect Sansa at all costs…even if it's from himself. Jonsa Red Riding Hood fairytale REMIX
1. Chapter 1

**In the Company of Wolves**

There's a beast prowling in the Wolfswood forest, just outside the village of Winterfell…

Everything A Big Bad Wolf Could Want: Fair of face and kissed by fire, Sansa Stark is a force to be reckoned with—with a feisty spirit to match the flare of her flaming hair. Still, there's no shortage of suitors vying for the hand of the eldest daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, but despite all their clever plans, Sansa vows she will only marry for love. A chance encounter with a mysterious stranger in the woods sets her on a path of passion and dangerous intrigue. Is Jon her salvation or her damnation? Perhaps he is both.

Even Bad Wolves Can Be Good: Being the fatherless son of the village recluse believed to be a witch, Jon Snow is no stranger to being ostracized by his peers. Even after his mother's death, he keeps to himself, living a life of solitude in the forest, and stays clear of Winterfell village—content to watch from a distance the auburn haired beauty that has beguiled him since he was naught but a lad. But Jon harbors a dark secret—and he's sworn to protect Sansa at all costs … even if it's from himself.

Little girls, this seems to say,

Never stop upon your way.

Never trust a stranger-friend;

No one knows how it will end.

As you're pretty, so be wise;

Wolves may lurk in every guise.

Handsome they may be, and kind,

Gay, or charming never mind!

Now, as then, 'tis simple truth—

Sweetest tongue has sharpest tooth!

\- Charles Perrault, _Little Red Riding Hood_

* * *

 **Chapter One: Eyes Black, Big Paws, And It's Poison, And It's Blood**

 _Eyes black, big paws,_

 _and it's poison, and it's blood._

And big fire, big burn

Into the ashes, and no return

-Fever Ray, The Wolf

A glowing orb in the inky night sky, the full moon shone down, casting its beams between the shuddering trees of the Wolfswood. He prowls in the shadows, keeping to the darkness because the moon burns his fur. Perhaps he just imagines that to be so, but it burns just the same. He raises his head and howls up at it—cursing it as it curses him. _Monster_. He's a monster. He knows it. He doesn't want to be. But the hunger—tremendous, painful hunger… it gnaws at his insides like a festering wound.

Eyes black, he scans his surroundings, prowling deeper into the wood, scenting the air for his next kill. There's a faint stirring of something in the breeze. A hare. Its ears have already perked up—sensing his presence before he makes himself known. He can hear its heartbeat pulsing, thudding—life's blood. He's already salivating. Its eyes flicker back at him in the darkness.

Big paws, he lumbers forward, his sharp claws extending. It's over within seconds, the hare doesn't even have time to run before he's overpowered it. It squeals in terror, as he sinks his teeth into its muzzle and its life pours into him. Hot and sticky, it drips from his incisors— _poisonous blood_.

Everything he eats turns to ash in his mouth. He's still ravenous, the hunger is not sated. _Never_ sated. Spine curved, head thrown back, he cries his anguish to the cursed moon again. A pained, horrid sound that splits the silence in the forest and echos back at him, hollow in his own ears. He _remembers_ … remembers who did this to him—who made him a monster. And then… he forgets.

Catching a new scent, he sniffs excitedly at the air, nostrils flaring as it seeps inside him—an earthy, potent musk. He _knows_ this smell and follows it. Closer to the sleeping village, it leads him. To Winterfell. He doesn't ever come this close. _Monsters don't belong here_. They belong in the deepest corners of the forest, shrouded in darkness, their hideous faces hidden from innocent eyes. Still, he follows the smell, the bloodlust driving him forward, clawing at his empty, burning stomach.

His ears twitch—he hears them before he sees them. Woman and man. The scent is overwhelming now. Leather and lilacs. _Sweat and sex_. Blue skirts rucked high up smooth thighs, blonde hair pale as the moonlight, legs spread wide, the man ruts between them. Her head lolls, red lips pursed. She licks them as a moan spills forth.

And he remembers again. Remembers how… _This_. Silver hair spilling over his shoulders, soft skin and amethyst eyes, her bite at his throat. Black paws claw at his neck where the beasts' mark dwells. _Monster_. A low growl escapes him, thin lips peeling back over razor sharp teeth, saliva dripping from his jowls.

The pain shreds through his insides, erasing everything else… and then he forgets again. It's only hunger he remembers now—only hunger he knows. _Insatiable hunger_. An empty, gnawing ache that no amount of hares will quench. He thinks he understands that now.

He watches her pulse throb in her throat— _the poisonous blood_ —as her chest heaves, creamy bosom straining against blue silk. Her head falls back and she cries out to the night sky. To the moon, like him. He fights the urge to do the same.

The hunger distracts him, makes him careless. A branch snaps beneath his paw, and he sinks further into the brush as nervous glances flit about, eyes scanning the surrounding trees. They've finished. The woman shoves her skirts down and hauls herself up from the ground as the man fumbles with his breeches. She casts her eyes this way and that. He wonders if she can sense him like the hare?

Linking hands, they disappear down the path that leads towards the village. He doesn't go there. _Not like this_. Not when he's a monster. But tonight he does; the pain from the hunger is too overpowering to fight. His humanity— _what's left of it_ —does not prevail. Carefully, he follows behind, slinking hidden in the shadows, his paws padding softly on the forest floor. He doesn't make a sound.

The path widens as they approach Winterfell and leave the cover of the woods. He remains behind, watching, waiting, biding his time with darkness as his shroud. The lovers embrace at the well and finally, they separate—lips, then hands pulling apart. His stomach clenches painfully. _Impatiently._

 _Lilacs_. The perfumed scent of her skin catches the breeze. It stirs his fur as it tickles his nostrils, mingled with the heady tang of sex that still seeps from her pores. It twists at his gut—a mixture of hunger and desire. Raw and primitive, and _entirely_ animalistic. It excites and terrifies him. But then the hunger rips at his insides again, and all is forgotten as he begins to trail her. He keeps to the trees, slipping between the shadows unseen. He _is_ the shadows—the thing that goes bump in the night… _Monster._

Again, he wonders if she can sense his presence. Her steps become more urgent, her gait clumsy. She casts a nervous glance over her shoulder. Once. Twice. The air is suddenly rife with the scent of fear. It invades his snout and his pupils dilate, the intoxicating smell only making him more ravenous, the pain burning within him more intense.

She _does_ sense him. _She must_. Her heart thuds—life's blood pulsing. _Boom. Boom. Boom_. It pounds in his ears, an aphrodisiac of terror, his own heart slams in response. _So hungry_. He's salivating. He can taste her fear. It ripples across his taste buds as he drops down on all fours. Powerful hind legs bending—extending, he leaps from the shadows and lands effortlessly in front of her, a low growl rumbling up from deep within his chest.

He bares his teeth, sharp incisors gleaming in the moonlight. She doesn't scream. She can't—she's crippled with fear. Her chest heaves as she struggles to draw breath, her breasts straining against the blue fabric of her gown. He raises himself back up on two legs and her head follows his ascension, her eyes blown wide with terror.

He takes a menacing step towards her. She stumbles backwards. It's coming, _he knows_ —survival instincts kicking in, the driving need to live—to escape her fate, she turns to run. But there's no escaping it, and he doesn't plan to give her the opportunity to try, anyway. He lunges as she turns on her heel. Massive paws slamming into her back, her body crumbling to the ground. The scream perched on the tip of her tongue dying as the air rushes from her lungs in a _whoosh_ —knocked out by the burden of his unyielding weight upon her.

Strands of gold spilling across the ground, her pulse slams against the pale white skin of her throat. It beckons him to bite—to taste—to quench the unbearable hunger that drove him to this. The moon breaks through the clouds, bathing them both in its eerie light. It burns, singeing at his fur. Pain— _scorching_ him inside and out… everywhere. Another howl splits the night, pulled forth from the very depths of his soul where his humanity resides. If he does this, he will truly be a monster. _He doesn't want to be_. Never asked for this. But the hunger…

 _Just a taste_ … Sharp teeth pricking at the delicate skin of her neck. Screams flood his ears. Are they hers or his? It doesn't matter. _Poisonous blood_ —warm, salty. It coats his throat as it drips down to soothe his burning stomach. _More. More. More_. It slathers his muzzle as he tears at her throat, sharp teeth shredding her skin like ribbons. Ribbons of alabaster, blue and crimson. Her body is limp.

Spine twisted, he cries his victory up at the moon. Into the ashes, and no return. _Monster_. He is _truly_ a monster now.

He doesn't want to be.

* * *

A/N: Welcome to my Jon x Sansa Little Red Riding Hood fairytale remix! See you next update!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Hey There, Little Red Riding Hood**

 _Hey there, little red riding hood,_

You sure are looking good.

You're everything a big bad wolf could want …

\- L'il Red Riding Hood, Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs

* * *

"Hold still!" Sansa gave her sister's hair a harder-than-necessary tug, weaving her brown locks into a loose braid at her back.

"You're pulling!" Arya swatted blindly at her hand and hissed like a feral cat.

"You're squirming," Sansa shot back, tying off the braid with pretty blue ribbon, and guiding her sister to the looking glass. She laid the dressed hair over Arya's shoulder and smiled down at her little sister affectionately.

Arya studied her reflection, a scowl pinching her dramatic dark brows as she turned her head from side to side, assessing her features from every angle. "I look like a girl."

Sansa giggled, her fiery mane shaking with her musical laughter. "Yes well, silly, you _are_ a girl."

The smile fading from her lips, Arya's brown eyes moved to Sansa's reflection, assessing her in much the same way as she had herself. "But _you're_ the pretty one."

Sansa spun her little sister around to face her and flicked at the tip of her nose. "You're pretty too." Her blue eyes were earnest, her words sincere.

Just barely two years separated them by birth but growing up, it had felt like eons, with the blood flowing through their veins being the only thing that seemed to bind them. For never had there been a pair quite so opposite as Sansa and her baby sister. Where Sansa was feminine, Arya was more her father's son than his _actual_ sons, at times. She could shoot circles around her brothers, but couldn't thread a needle to save her life. It had been a great source of contention between the girls for much of their childhood—each of them vying for the other parent's attention, each of them secretly jealous of the other's strengths and accomplishments. Arya's easy camaraderie with the boys often left Sansa feeling like she was at a huge disadvantage—always outside looking in.

But then Robb took a wife and moved out on his own, and when Arya began sprouting curves as she ascended into womanhood, the sisters realized they weren't that much different after all. Sansa embraced their newfound common ground wholeheartedly—no longer feeling like such an outsider when it came to her siblings.

"That Gendry fellow seems to think so, too," Sansa added for good measure. She'd seen them admiring one another when they each thought the other wasn't looking. Gendry certainly had a few years on Arya, but he was kind and gentle, and definitely easy on the eyes. "He couldn't possibly be the reason for your sudden interest in my braiding skills, could he?"

"Of course not," Arya answered quickly—too quickly, her eyes flitting nervously around the room, and everywhere other than Sansa's knowing smile. Finally she relented, with a resigned sigh. "Not _really_."

"He fancies you," Sansa offered before heeding their mother's call. She lifted her skirts and headed for the kitchen before her sister could begin picking her brain.

"How do you know?" Arya prodded, not to be deterred, following closely on her heels.

"We'll talk later," Sansa whispered, rounding the table.

"Talk about what?" Catelyn looked up from the kettle of porridge she was stirring over the wood stove, her eyes widening slightly as she took in Arya's polished appearance. She recovered quickly, returning to her task when met with a chorus of _nothing's_ from her daughters. "Fine. Arya, set the table, please. Sansa, go out back and fetch your brothers."

Mother was a stickler about always eating together as a family, insisting that traditions were important—the type of things that held families together through good and bad, thick and thin. _Family, duty, honor_. Even Robb and Talisa joined them at the dinner table for almost every evening meal.

Sansa nodded, and slipped into her lovely red velvet cloak—a treasured gift from Old Nan for her seventeenth name day. Mother had chastised the old woman for giving such an extravagant gift but Nan had insisted, having no daughters to pass it along to, and it was always Sansa who sat with an avid interest through her endless stories of days gone by.

Fastening the dainty ribbon strings in a bow at the base of her throat, Sansa smoothed her hands along the intricate embroidery and tugged the fur-lined hood up over head, as she stepped outside into the brisk morning air.

Autumn would be upon them soon. The days were growing shorter, the nights cooler, and some of the leaves were already beginning to change colors. The turn of the seasons would bring the harvest festival, which Sansa always looked forward to. Maybe Dickon Tarly would finally work up the courage to ask her for a dance this year? Or perhaps she'd just ask him herself? He was a decent enough fellow, and handsome too. And if she was going to be thrust into a marriage, Sansa was damn sure she was going to have _some_ say in the _who_. Thankfully her parents hadn't broached the subject recently, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

Making her way around to the back of their cottage, she found the boys prodding something on the ground with sticks. Hoping it wasn't some small unfortunate forest critter, Sansa cupped her hands against her mouth and called out to her little brothers, sighing when they both dropped their sticks and sprinted for the woods. Giggling wildly, they disappeared within the tree line—successfully entrapping their big sister in an unwilling game of hide-and-seek.

Picking up her skirts so they wouldn't trip her up, Sansa chased after them, thankful as she passed their discarded sticks and realized they were only poking at some spotted mushrooms.

"Bran! Rickon!" she called uselessly, knowing full well they weren't going to give up that easily.

Stepping into the cover of the trees, Sansa lowered her hood, her eyes and ears alert for any signs of her naughty little brothers. As she ventured deeper within the forest, she realized—with a sudden strange stirring in her belly—that the woods were eerily quiet this morning. Not even the usual chirping of birds was present. It was odd… unsettling.

 _I'm not afraid_ , Sansa told herself, even as a chill worked its way up her spine and settled at the back of her neck.

"Mother will be cross," she warned her brothers, although she could not see them, and pulled her cloak more tightly around her body.

"You should run home then, Little Red. The woods are not safe."

Sansa inhaled sharply, whirling around at the sound of the deep voice that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Her blue eyes widening in surprise, she flattened herself against the tree at her back, until she could feel the roughness of the bark scraping at her through her clothing.

He was dressed in all black, a woolen cloak draped across the broad width of his shoulders, black breeches and boots clinging to his lean legs and hips, and a messy mane of thick black curls piled atop his head. _Black_. Everything about him was black—except his eyes. A sharp, piercing grey gaze pinned her in place—focused and intense, as if he could see right to the very depths of her soul.

Sansa swallowed nervously. "I'm looking for my brothers."

The man tilted his head, his curls tumbling with the sudden movement, his nostrils flaring slightly. "Over there," he said and nodded, indicating a fallen tree just a few yards away.

Sansa's heart slammed against her ribs. _Had he just scented the air?_

"Who are you?" she demanded, with much more bravado than she felt.

"No one of consequence." There was a sudden amusement dancing in his grey eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching into the slightest of grins. Had Sansa not been so fixated on his lips, she might have missed it.

 _Goodness_ , how rude of her to have forgotten her manners—even if his were _most certainly_ lacking. "Forgive me. I am San—"

"I know _exactly_ who you are, Little Red," the man cut her off, further justifying her initial impression of him. His brows rose up into his mop of curls as he leaned his muscular frame against the tree at his side, and unabashedly raked his gaze down the length of her body.

Sansa bristled at his bold inspection, even as she felt the fluttering of butterflies deep in her tummy. "Well I'm certain we haven't met before. I'm sure your lack of manners would not be easily forgotten, sir."

He laughed at that—a deep, rich sound that Sansa had not expected. It swirled around her like a soft caress, warming her insides and sending a blush rushing into her cheeks. Her eyelashes fluttering in embarrassment, she opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, when the bells in the village began to clang wildly.

"I told you the woods were not safe," the man said again, his warning rattling her almost as much as the bells sounding loudly in the distance.

 _Clang_. One for visitors. _Clang_. Two for foes. _Clang_. Three for danger… But incessant ringing meant _something else_ was _wrong_. She needed to get home immediately.

Sansa cried out for her brothers once more, relieved when Bran and Rickon emerged from behind the fallen tree—precisely where the man had said they were hiding—and rushed to her side. Hefting little Rickon up into her arms, Sansa clutched at Bran's hand and turned to address the tall dark stranger—but he was gone, vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Ignoring the goosebumps that suddenly broke out upon her flesh, Sansa ran for home as fast as her heavy skirts and her clinging little brothers would allow, literally dragging a winded Bran behind in her refusal to relinquish her iron-like grip on his arm. Mother was waiting for them behind the cottage, her brow wrinkled with worry lines.

"What's happening?" Sansa asked, yelling over the bells, as they were much louder here, closer to the center of the village.

Catelyn grabbed for Bran's hand. "I don't know. Your father and Robb have gone to find out. Come."

She ushered Sansa ahead of her, shoving her inside and slamming the door of their cottage closed behind them.

Sansa set Rickon on the ground, then shrugged out of her cloak and hung it on one of the hooks by the door. She greeted her sister-in-law with an affectionate peck on the cheek.

"Do you know what this is about?" she asked her.

"No." Talisa shook her head, balancing the basket she carried on the shelf of her very round pregnant belly. "Robb and I had already arrived when they began ringing the alarm."

"And just what were the two of you doing in the woods?" her mother immediately began chastising the boys, hands on her hips, her commanding voice somehow carrying over the clanging of the bells.

"Go wash up," she demanded, when neither of them had a good enough excuse to offer other than _but, but, but_.

Sansa moved to the fireplace, still unable to shake the chill that had enveloped her. _Who was that man?_ How did he know her? And why had he insisted the woods were not safe? Of course they were! She grew up playing in the Wolfswood with her friends and her siblings. Nothing bad had ever befallen any of them. There were stories of the witch that lived deep within the wood; but no one had seen her in years, and despite the tales boasting of her affinity for the blood of little ones, none of the village children had ever turned up missing, as far as she could recall.

Sansa rubbed at her temples. The sound of the bells was becoming maddening, robbing her of her ability to think. Her eyes drifted shut and almost immediately that mysterious grey gaze flashed behind her eyelids. _Grey with flecks of amethyst …_

And just like that, the bells stopped.

Sansa opened her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 -I Don't Think Little Big Girls Should**

Little red riding hood

 _I don't think little big girls should_

Go walking in these spooky old woods alone

L'il Red Riding Hood", Sam The Sham And The Pharaohs

* * *

 _Silence._

Almost too quiet to be calming in the wake of such chaos. Sansa exhaled, her clarity returning, the warmth of the fire finally succeeding in drawing out the chill that had seeped straight to the marrow of her bones.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang_. The door rattled on its hinges, as her mother moved to release the latch and Sansa's father and brother stepped through the threshold.

"What has happened?" Sansa was thankful for her mother's impatience, as Catelyn set in on her husband and son before they'd even divested themselves of their cloaks.

"A dead girl," Robb blurted out, earning a disapproving look from his father amidst the collective gasps that followed his words.

"An animal attack, it appears," Ned explained more rationally, placing a calming hand on his wife's shoulder. "The butcher's girl."

"Val?" It was Arya who asked, though Sansa had conjured up the same name, the same image in her mind: Silvery blonde hair, fair skin and full pink lips that nearly every man in the village yearned to kiss— _and many did_.

"You knew her?" Ned settled himself at the head of the table, his eyes moving between both of his daughters as Sansa remained by the fireplace, and Arya joined him at the table.

"Knew _of_ her," Sansa offered.

Arya snorted. "Who didn't?"

"Arya!" Catelyn admonished her youngest daughter, wringing her hands in her apron at the implication of her words. "We do not speak ill of the dead."

Arya had only voiced what everyone had been thinking, for Valorie Pratte's reputation of _familiarity_ wasn't exactly a well-kept secret and had, in fact, been the subject of the womenfolks' wagging tongues at the well on several occasions. _Still_ , her propensity for easily lifting her skirts in the wood didn't diminish the fact that she was gone, and just a few doors down, her family was mourning her loss.

"What kind of animal?" Talisa asked. She'd deposited her basket and taken the chair that Robb pulled out for her.

"A bear. Perhaps a pack of wild dogs, wolves maybe," he answered, settling into the chair beside her.

"This time of year? Certainly there's plenty food to be found—"

" _Hush_ ," Catelyn chided, interrupting the conversation as the younger boys joined them, cleaned up from their romp in the woods. "Just an unfortunate accident. We'll make the Prattes a pie and offer our condolences this evening, perhaps?"

"Yes, that's nice dear." Ned nodded as she ladled out a generous portion of porridge for him.

Sansa remained silent, as disinterested in the conversation as she was with her morning meal. Unable to keep her mind from wandering to the dark stranger in the woods, she finally stopped prodding her porridge and forced herself to empty her bowl so she could be excused.

"Talisa, why don't you stay and help us?" Catelyn suggested after they'd begun to clear the table.

"I'd love to, but I've got to take that basket of goods to Old Nan. I gave her my word."

"Such a long walk in your condition," Cat clucked her teeth.

"I'll do it," Sansa volunteered eagerly, nearly tripping over her own two feet as she scrambled for the door. A long walk was just what she needed to clear her addled brain, and truth be told, it had been a long time since she'd heard one of her beloved Nan's stories.

Catelyn looked apprehensive. "I'm not sure that's—"

"She'll be fine," Ned insisted, holding out Sansa's red cloak so she could easily slip within its velvet folds. He turned his daughter round to face him and chucked her under the chin. "Stay out of the woods. Stick to the main road and don't dawdle."

"Yes, father," Sansa nodded, hooking the basket of goodies over her arm.

* * *

Sansa adjusted her hood as she stepped outside and moved towards the well where she knew all her friends would have likely converged by now. She'd promised father she wouldn't dawdle and she didn't plan to, but surely there was no harm in momentary salutations.

Margaery spotted her almost immediately—although Sansa supposed she was hard to miss with her flaming red cape billowing about her.

"Have you heard?" She asked, slipping her arm through Sansa's. Margaery loved gossip.

"About Valorie?"

She waved at the air dismissively. "No, silly, of course _everyone's_ heard about _that_." Margaery's eyes sparked with mischief as she studied her friend's face expectantly. "You really haven't heard?"

 _But_ being Margaery, she paused dramatically for effect before spouting, "Dickon has returned from visiting with his brother in Olde Town!"

"He has?" Sansa feigned disinterest, although there was no use or need for false pretense where her most dearest friend was concerned. Dickon Tarly had traveled south to see his brother at the first sign of spring, and Sansa and Margaery had been speculating all summer when he might return. "When?"

"This morning, maybe? Or perhaps last night? Oh, who cares!" Margaery gushed excitedly. "The point is, he's returned, and already inquiring after you."

"How do you know?" Sansa asked, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks.

"Because I'm the one he asked, silly girl." Margaery beamed and Sansa bristled, knowing her friend intended to make her drag it out of her bit by bit.

"And?" Sansa played along, just now realizing that Margaery was leading her somewhere—and in the opposite direction of where she ought to be headed.

But there was no reason for Margaery to answer when Sansa realized they had reached her friend's intended destination, and now stood at the edge of the Tarly property. Dickon was busy loading tools into a horse-drawn cart, Margaery's brother Loras lending him a hand. Dickon waved sheepishly upon catching sight of them, a sudden sense of urgency overtaking him as he took to his task, his eyes occasionally drifting in her direction— _and_ Margaery insistent upon pointing it out every time.

"Well, do come find me later," Margaery cooed as Loras joined them, his portion of the task complete. "And I'll be wanting all the sordid details." She winked for good measure, and sashayed away on her brother's arm.

Sansa's heart sped up slightly as she realized her friends intended to leave her behind. Her eyes flitted about nervously as Dickon made his way towards her, leading the horse and cart behind him. It was _highly_ improper for a young lady to be left alone in the company of a man that was not her father, brother, or husband—and Dickon Tarly was none of those things.

 _And yet_ , as he closed the distance between them, all kind blue eyes and bashful grins, Sansa relaxed a bit. They _were_ out in public and in the open after all, and it would be _terribly_ rude for her to walk away now. Besides, Dickon Tarly was nothing if not the epitome of a fine young gentleman. It was one of the reasons he was at the top of her list when it came to future suitors.

"Hello, Miss Stark," he greeted her with a polite smile and a nod of his head. "You're looking lovely as ever today. Not that— _well_ , uhhh," he stumbled nervously over his words, "begging your pardon, I'm sure you look— _I mean_ , you _do_ look lovely every day."

"You're very kind." Sansa returned his smile, her cheeks warming at the compliment. Finding his discomfort endearing, she decided to give him a reprieve from his flustering, and tactfully shifted the topic. "I didn't know you had returned from your travels."

"Yes, early this morning and father is already putting me back to work." His complaint held no real conviction, as he held out his hand for her basket. "May I unburden you, Miss Stark?"

"Thank you." Sansa nodded, allowing him to divest her of her basket as they began walking back through the village in no apparent hurry. "And how fares your brother, sir?"

"Well. He fares well, thank you. And as grateful as I was to visit with him, I yearned for home and was eager to return before the seasons changed again."

"Oh, stricken with homesickness, were you, Mr. Tarly?" Sansa knew she was being unseemly flirtatious, yet was unable to stop herself from batting her eyelashes coquettishly up at him. _My oh my, but Margaery was beginning to be quite the bad influence on her!_

"The scenery pales in comparison, Miss Stark," Dickon replied just as coquettishly—leaving no doubt whatsoever that he was referring to her, albeit his appraising glance brief. "So where are you headed, if I may so inquire?"

Sansa was still blushing when she answered, indicating the basket of goods he carried for her. "Taking that to my Gran, in River Run." It wasn't untruthful; Old Nan _was_ like a grandmother to her, after all.

They'd come to the edge of town, and the heavy _clop-clop-clop_ of Randyll Tarly's axe could be heard echoing through the trees. Dickon stopped, slackening the reins of the horse behind him, and toed the ground nervously with his boot. "This is where our paths diverge then, Miss Stark."

He looked troubled, as he eyed the empty winding road up ahead. "Are you sure you ought to be traveling alone?"

"I've nothing to fear," Sansa insisted. "Besides, if my father thought it dangerous, he'd not have allowed me to go." If she trusted in anyone, it was her father.

Dickon nodded as he relinquished her basket. "God speed then, Miss Stark. I look forward to seeing you again soon."

"Good day, Mr. Tarly." Sansa dipped her head politely in return, her fingers closing around the basket's handle. She hooked it over the crook of her arm, and set off on the road to River Run.

* * *

Nan's cottage sat on the outskirts of River Run, old and decrepit, yet steadfast and endearing—like the woman who dwelled within. Sansa recalled many a happy childhood day spent here, as she carefully climbed the stone staircase to the entrance. Letting the hood of her cloak fall to her shoulders, Sansa raised her hand to knock when she noticed the door hung open, _unsecured_.

"Nan?" she called softly, barely able to hear her own voice over the steady pounding of her heart in her ears.

 _Silence._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - The Kind Of Eyes That Drive Wolves Mad**

What big eyes you have,

 _The kind of eyes that drive wolves mad._

Just to see that you don't get chased,

I think I oughta walk with you for a ways.

-Li'l Red Riding Hood, Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs

* * *

Sansa willed her heart to be steady as she slowly pushed open the door. It groaned loudly in protest, its old hinges squealing in the deafening silence, her hands trembling so that she almost dropped her basket.

"Nan?" She swallowed convulsively, her voice naught but a whisper as she attempted to peek around the door's frame, her breath shuddering in the unsettling quiet.

"Shut the door, child, and quit hovering!" Nan snapped, causing Sansa to near-on jump out of her skin. "You're lettin' in the bugs!"

Sansa stumbled inside and pushed the door closed, securing the latch before slumping heavily against it. She pressed her head against the cool grain of the wood whilst allowing her heart to slow and her breathing to regulate.

When she could trust herself to speak, she clutched at her breast and said, "But the door was open, Nan."

Her old body draped in her rocking chair, a quilt tucked 'round her legs, Nan looked up from her knitting, eyeing Sansa over her spectacles as if the younger woman had grown an extra head. "'Course it was open, I opened it. Saw you comin' up the way all cloaked in red, and I'm no spring fowl to be up and flittin' about on a whim, mind you. Saved myself a trip."

Setting her knitting in her lap, Nan pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and studied Sansa with eyes that were earnest and sharp as ever, despite her advanced age. "Heavens, child, you look as if you've seen the devil himself. Come," she insisted, and hooked an old gnarled finger, "give Old Nan a kiss."

 _Had she seen the devil?_ The stranger in the woods flashed behind Sansa's eyelids. _Black—all black but for the grey, grey, grey of his gaze…_

"You gave me a fright, is all." Sansa shook her thoughts and did as she was bid. Stepping forward, she bent to place a kiss on Nan's withered cheek. "You shouldn't leave your door open, Nan. It's not safe."

"Rubbish," the old woman harrumphed, her frail shoulders shaking. "If something intends to get in, you think a latched door will keep it out?"

Sansa squelched the urge to argue her point. As father always said, Nan was old and opinionated—set in her ways, and there was no changing her mind once it was made up. The fact that she had said _something_ , and not _someone_ , was not lost on Sansa, either—but then again, this _was_ Nan, after all, and her propensity to say odd things at times was nothing if not _very_ … well, Nan-like.

"I've brought you some things." Sansa lifted the basket to show her.

"Such a lovely girl." Nan patted her cheek affectionately. "Go on and put it on the table and then come sit, child," she said, and indicated the fur pelt at her feet.

"There's a slab of cured pork there from your Aunt Lysa, see that your mother gets it," she called out. Sansa quickly unpacked the basket, laying its contents out on the table as Nan had instructed: a block of goat cheese, a loaf of bread, and a tin of lard.

Quickly tucking the cured pork inside the basket, Sansa unclasped her cloak and settled down at Nan's side, smoothing her skirts out around her.

"Yes, a lovely girl." Nan bobbed her head, her spectacles sliding down her nose again as she set back in on her knitting.

"I was a looker, too, you know?" she continued as Sansa picked up the spool of wool Nan was working from and tucked it into her own lap. "Of course you wouldn't know to look at me now, bag full o' bones and skin all leathery, but I turned many a head in my day."

Nan eyed her over the rim of her specs again, her thin lips pinching in the slightest of grins. "Tell me, child, do you have a fella?"

"No, Nan." Sansa blushed, barely able to get the words out of her mouth before Nan continued on in her rambling.

"Bet the lads are falling over themselves to get at you. You've got those Tully looks, inherited them from your mother, you did. The lads fell over themselves to get to her, too."

And so the afternoon toiled away, with Nan's hands knitting at the blanket she was making for Robb and Talisa's baby, and her mouth weaving tale after tale. When the sun had climbed to its highest point in the sky, she stopped just long enough to warm some kidney pies for lunch, instructing Sansa on how to make them the way she liked them best—with lots of peas and onions.

Returning to her rickety old rocker, Nan delved into another bout of endless chatter, pulling Sansa into her fantastical world of giants and sprites, of mythical creatures and magic spells—tales of romance, danger and intrigue. It wasn't until the sky outside turned a deep reddish-orange in preparation for the sun to make its descent below the horizon, that Sansa realized how late it had gotten, and recalled the promise she'd made to her father.

"Goodness!" She abruptly stood, sending Nan's spool rolling under her rocker. Quickly she bent to retrieve it, then reached for her cloak. "I must make haste if I'm to get home before dark. Father will be cross, he told me not to dawdle."

"Nonsense, child, you'll not make it home before dark! You should not be traveling when the witching hour is upon us. You'll stay the night and head out at first light," Nan insisted, wagging her finger.

"Nan, I mustn't!" Sansa quickly donned her cloak, looping the strings at her throat into a messy bow. "I'll come back and see you again soon. I promise."

"See that you do," Nan harrumphed again, patting Sansa's cheek as she bent to kiss her goodbye.

As she pulled back, the old woman's hand shot out with surprising quickness, latching onto Sansa's wrist.

"Listen to me, girl." Her eyes narrowed over her spectacles, searching Sansa's face intently. "Every shortcut has a price… usually far greater than its reward. Stick to the path… _always_ to the path."

Sansa nodded as she straightened, a shiver coursing through her at Nan's ominous choice of words. Unfortunately—or perhaps _fortunately_ —she didn't have time to ponder them.

Scooping up her basket, Sansa adjusted her red hood and made for the door. She paused for a moment as she pulled it open, its hinges groaning. "Please latch the door, Nan."

"Remember what I said, girl," the old woman's voice followed after her. _"Remember."_

* * *

The sun had made a swift descent, leaving Sansa to walk in shadows, as the moon occasionally peeped out from behind the clouds to bathe the road ahead in an eerie, surreal sort of light. She clutched at her cloak, bringing it more tightly about her shoulders, as a cool breeze whispered through the trees to stir her hair. It crept its way down the back of her neck, prickling along the curve of her spine to send goosebumps skittering across her chilled flesh.

 _I'm not afraid._

A wolf howled somewhere in the distance—a harbinger of doom, as the moon ducked behind the clouds again, and a branch snapped somewhere behind her—or perhaps in front of her, she couldn't be sure…

 _I'm not afraid._

Sansa chanted the words over and over again to herself— _I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid_ —wanting, _needing_ so desperately to believe them, but they were naught but a _lie._

 _She was afraid._

Yet, she continued on. What choice did she have? She was too far away from Nan's to turn back now—too prideful to admit she'd made a mistake. And so she squared her chin proudly, defiantly—her steps deliberate, and continued to make her way home.

And just what was Nan on about, anyway? Sansa wondered, attempting to occupy her thoughts as she picked up the pace. What other path had she been referring to? And what had prompted her to say such a thing?

 _Crack._ Another snapping of a twig—far closer than the last.

Sansa stopped short, her skirts swishing about her legs at the abrupt movement, her ears straining to hear past the wild skipping of her own pulse, as the eerie sensation of being watched swirled around her—thick and suffocating, like a creeping fog.

She took a cautious step forward. Then another, her feet skidding, tripping, on the uneven path beneath her boots as she broke into a run. Her cloak billowed out behind her, catching on the wind and lending to the sensation of hands clutching to draw her back—to envelope her in the shroud of darkness looming just over her shoulder.

 _Don't look back,_ a voice sounded somewhere in her head, ringing in her ears as the snapping of branches seemed to surround her from every which way. Crunching, cracking, _snap-snap-_ snapping— _brittle_ —like the breaking of bones, they echoed in her ears.

Sansa ran harder, her lungs burning, chest heaving. The wind picked up, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of decay, thick and rancid, it swirled around her—inside of her, choking Sansa with panic, as the gnarled fingers of her imagination continued to yank at her cloak from behind.

A chorus of howling split through the night—sinister and foreboding. Weaving between the trees, they engulfed her; the snarls and growls rose to a crescendo of horrifying cries so deafening that Sansa clamped her hands over her ears to drown out the frightening symphony, lest it bring her to her knees.

She stumbled, her boot twisting as it skid in the stones beneath her feet. Sansa cried out, arms flailing, scrambling for purchase that was naught to be found as she felt the ground come up to meet her—felt the bite of the gravel as she fell hard, the air leaving her lungs in an audible _whoosh,_ as her basket rolled from her grasp.

Her hood flew up over head, robbing Sansa of her vision as her world faded into black. She sputtered, coughing as she dragged air into her desperate, deflated lungs and struggled to hear past the incessant ringing in her ears—expecting to be torn apart at any moment.

 _Silence._

An eerie stillness—far more terrifying than the howling cries of the wolves, settled around her like a frigid, frozen blanket of snow.

 _Sansa._

Faintly, she swore she could hear her name. It slithered in her ringing ears, coiling around her like a serpent— _forbidden_ —and set the hair on the nape of her neck standing at attention.

A low, rumbling growl split the silence—vibrating through her body like a deadly caress. Her breath stuttering, tears already beginning to well in her eyes, Sansa whispered a prayer to the old gods as she slowly reached for her hood with trembling hands to peep out from beneath its folds with wary blue eyes.

 _Grey._ Human-like and hauntingly familiar. _Black—all black but for the grey, grey, grey of his gaze…_ Its eyes burned into hers… a wolf far bigger than any she'd ever seen—far bigger than any wolf had a right to be.

But _not_ black. Its pelt was white as fallen snow, stark against the darkness of the surrounding forest. And despite her fear at the curl of the animal's lips pulling back over razor-sharp incisors, Sansa had the urge to reach out and stroke its fur—curious if it was as soft as it looked.

The wolf snarled, puffs of its hot breath hitting her in the face, and Sansa shrunk back as it took a menacing step towards her, its jaws snapping at the frigid air. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for its bite—for it to rip her to shreds when…

 _Sansa_ —faintly she heard her name once more. _Get up, Sansa._

Perplexed, Sansa shuddered as the words curled around her like a warm embrace—heavy and soothing _somehow,_ despite the fear that clutched at her tender heart beating so rapidly within her breast. She forced her eyes open, her mouth agape as the clouds overhead finally broke, releasing the moon from their clutches.

It shone down upon them, illuminating the enormous beast, its coat blinding in the pale yellow light. It rose up on powerful hind legs—long and lean—and stood before her… _stood_ as only a human being should— _not a wolf…_

It growled again, its massive paws thundering upon the stones as it stepped past her. Sansa's body instinctively twisted, her neck craning so that she might track its movements as it placed itself between her and the snarling pack of wolves at her back—now revealed by the moonlight.

The pack quieted in the white wolf's presence, heads bowing in a cadence of soft cries and subdued whines when it raised its massive head to the skies and cried out to the moon—a soulful sound that shook Sansa straight to the marrow of her bones. And then the pack was gone—the _snap-snap_ -snapping of twigs announcing their retreat as they disappeared into the darkness from whence they'd came.

 _Get up, Sansa._

She heard it again as the beast dropped back down on all fours, the ground beneath her shuddering with the wolf's impressive weight as it turned to regard her again with its curiously human-like eyes.

Quickly, Sansa scrambled to her feet, wincing at the throbbing pain in her knee where her skirts were torn. The wolf's eyes settled there, scenting the air, another low growl rumbling through its massive frame as it shook the saliva from its dripping muzzle, then whimpered—as if in shame.

 _Go. Go now._ The voice touched her mind again, and Sansa blinked—for surely she'd been struck by madness, standing fearless before this beast who could snap her bones like a twig…

But she _knew_ it wouldn't. Knew no harm would come to her as she reached, hand outstretched towards the thick fur she suddenly longed to touch… Soft, _so soft_ as she carded through it with curious fingers.

The beast whined again, a strangled sound, momentarily leaning into her touch. Its grey eyes softened as it looked upon her with a striking tenderness—a human tenderness that clutched at Sansa's heart with such force, her breath hitched in her throat.

 _No!_

The voice was harsher now, and the wolf easily skirted from her grasp, another low growl vibrating in the space between them. It snapped its enormous jaws, sending Sansa stumbling backwards. Her gaze broke from the wolf's as she looked down to regain her footing, and when she looked back up… _the beast was gone._

Heart skipping wildly, Sansa scanned the tree line, wondering how it had managed to disappear from her sight so quickly—and _yet,_ she _knew_ it was still close by… She could _feel_ it.

With shaking hands, she scooped up her fallen basket, hooked it over her arm, and— ignoring the stabbing pain that shot up and down her leg with every stride—Sansa ran. Fast and hard, and without looking back.

Her lungs burned by the time she reached Winterfell—but she ran _still,_ not stopping until her fingers were curling around the familiar handle of her front door. Sansa turned the latch, breath stuttering, as a sorrowful howl split through the night… piercing straight through to her heart.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 - Gonna Keep My Sheep Suit On**

 _Gonna keep my sheep suit on._

'Til I'm sure that you've been shown,

That I can be trusted walking with you alone…

— Lil' Red Riding Hood, Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs

* * *

 _Sansa…_

She awoke with a start, the sound of her name echoing in her ears, wrenching Sansa from her slumber. She blinked—once, twice, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as her eyes flitted about in the heavy blackness that surrounded her.

Sansa expelled a shuddering breath as the dark shapes around her took on their familiar forms. She was in her room—her bed, and the cottage was quiet, but for Arya's soft snores.

 _Snoring._

Arya had not called her name.

Perhaps she had dreamt it, then? Her thoughts were broken and scattered, her head heavy… _so heavy._

Nan… the wolves… the dead girl…

 _Him._

Black and grey, so grey—and then all white. And soft… so, so soft between her fingertips.

 _Stay out of the woods, little red._

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut tight and shook her head. She didn't want to think about him—she shouldn't—but…

He had warned her. And he had saved her, too.

It was him. She knew it—she _felt_ it.

Sansa licked her lips. Her mouth was dry and her knee throbbed where she injured it in her fall. She could hear it—the blood— _thud-thud-thudding_ as it pulsed through her veins.

She had required three stitches from mother's needle to close the wound. Her torn skirt would need more than that if it was to be salvaged.

Her hand reached under the heavy blanket, skimming down the length of her body to curl around the linen bandage. Heat emanated from it like a burn, scorching her skin like the touch of a flame.

 _So hot… all over._

Was she feverish? Perhaps she had imagined—

 _Sansa…_

It came again, ringing in her ears. A husky whisper, robbing her of breath as it coiled around her like a soft caress—soft as fur, and yet it set her flesh to fire under the thick blankets she was tucked beneath.

 _Soft, so soft…_ white fur between her fingers…

 _No—_

Thick black curls, falling over his forehead…

He moved in the shadows. The moonlight that peeked through the shutters did not reveal his face, but Sansa didn't need to see him. She could _feel_ him—feel the grey of his gaze upon her—devouring her, like the darkness that shrouded him from her view.

 _He is the shadows._

She should be frightened, but it was not fear that gripped her in its desperate clutches as she twisted beneath his heavy presence. No—she _burned._ A slow, torturous ache… Her skin pulled taut over delicate bones, as she turned to living flame, heated flesh suffocated by the layers of blankets that separated her from the shadows that crept across her bedroom.

 _Sansa…_

She rolled her body in a slow wave, a gasp pushing past her lips as the heat consumed her. It burned from within—liquid fire in her blood. Her nipples scraped and tightened against the fabric of her night shift as she strained against the blankets. Hips thrusting upwards of their own volition, raising off the bed and canting into nothingness in a desperate bid for friction.

 _Seven save me…_

Sansa prayed for deliverance of her sinful transgressions, even as she kicked off the heavy blanket. Like her senses, control of her body had fled. She was a slave to its humming need as she rolled onto her stomach.

Her shift rucked up the backs of her thighs, the cool air hitting her heated flesh, as she pulled her knees up underneath herself and raised her hips in the air. She didn't feel the pain in her knee anymore. There was nothing but the slow, torturous ache throbbing between her thighs and the hollow emptiness that suddenly dwelled deep within her.

 _Please…_

She twisted her hips in frustration; she didn't know what she was asking for, only that she _wanted…_ And instinctively she knew only he could be the one to give it to her—only _he_ could satiate the burning need clawing at her insides like a ravenous hunger.

 _Sansa…_

Massive and looming, the darkness reached for her—paws like hands on her hips, claws digging sharply into her supple flesh. Heavy… soft… hot breath at the nape of her neck, nosing in her hair.

 _Yes…_

A soft whimper… the prick of teeth—sharp incisors nipping at her through the thin fabric of her shift. Sansa shuddered and arched her back, seeking, needing, _offering_ herself completely as she succumbed to the heat radiating throughout her quaking body and the darkness that meant to claim her.

She wanted it to.

 _Take me…_

Sansa rolled her hips, a silent invitation; it was instinct that drove her so shamelessly, chest heaving and heart slamming, pounding, erratically against her ribs.

 _Touch me, take me, claim me…_

She braced herself, sucking in a sharp breath, _and then…_ And then, a lone howl split through the quiet night—

Agonizing, low, and full of longing. It ripped through her body like it ripped through the deafening silence, curling heavily— _painfully,_ 'round her stuttering heart.

Her eyes flew open as Sansa bolted upright in bed, her breath coming in short bursts, as her eyes focused on the hazy pre-dawn light filtering through the shutters. The room was empty but for her and her sleeping, snoring sister in the adjacent bed. And Sansa found herself still tucked snugly beneath the comforting weight of her blanket.

It was naught but a dream.

But it was so _real…_ Real enough that she could still feel him—his presence, the heat of his gaze, radiating from her body, and the burning ache between her thighs that still remained. Sansa squeezed her legs together to stem the unfamiliar sensation, and a moan slipped unbidden past her lips when it had the opposite affect, and a burst of pleasure fluttered deep within her belly.

Shame stained her cheeks pink. Sansa clamped her hands over her mouth and cast a nervous glance in her sister's direction. But Arya remained undisturbed in her slumber—blissfully unaware of Sansa's most puzzling predicament.

 _Mother, maiden, crone… What was happening to her?_

Frustrated, she threw back the blanket and quietly slipped from her bed, wincing at the pain in her knew, but she was thankful for the familiar feel of it—something she understood. She embraced the pain, letting it ground her while she silently and swiftly dressed.

She wanted answers. That's what Sansa told herself to justify the recklessness of her actions as she quietly crept past her parents' room and shrugged into the security of her red cloak. It's madness, she knew; but the sorrow she heard in that piercing howl still clung to her, weighing heavily upon her heart, and— _dream or not_ — every instinct she possessed told her to find him.

With shaking hands, she unlatched the front door, and stole away into the dawn.

* * *

The morning air was cool and crisp, with dew still clinging like jewels to blades of grass, even absent of the sun's light. It caught on her skirts, sparkling, wetting them as Sansa traipsed towards the Wolfswood.

She paused momentarily at the tree line. The forest was silent again—just as it had been yesterday morning. No chirping of birds or the usual scattering sounds of forest-dwelling critters.

 _Stay out of the woods, little red._

A shiver passed through her body that had nothing to do with fear. Sansa was not afraid—not really.

She didn't know how, but she knew he was close—she could sense him—and so with a deep, shuddering breath, she followed her instincts, letting them guide her feet as she stepped into the woods and carefully navigated the twisted vines and broken branches that littered the forest floor.

"Where are you?" Sansa whispered, more to herself than to him, as she moved deeper into the woods than their last encounter—much farther than she'd ventured in years.

But there was no sign of him—no sign of anything, as the sun finally began to peep above the horizon. It cast its warmth down, bright rays penetrating through the spaces in the canopy above to occasionally kiss her skin. She was plenty warm, though—burning slowly, torturously, from the inside out.

"Show yourself!" Sansa cried out, her frustration building as she spun in a circle, her cape tangling in her skirts as they billowed out around her. "I know that you're here!"

 _Silence._

"I can feel you." She shivered again as her body continued to hum with awareness. The pleasurable fluttering deep in her belly returned to attack her senses with a vengeance, driving her damn near to madness.

And maybe that's what this was, she thought, even as the prospect horrified her. _Have I gone mad?_

Suddenly, the urge to flee was overwhelming, as Sansa turned to leave, and slammed— _oomph!_ —right into the solid wall of his chest. Startled, she stumbled, her cloak still twisted 'round her legs, and he steadied her with hands that were firm yet remarkably gentle.

 _Hands,_ not paws.

Her skin tingled where he grasped her upper arms, as if there were not layers of fabric separating his touch from her bare skin. Like the furious flapping of a butterflies wings, the fluttering continued to ravage her belly, and Sansa sucked her bottom lip between her teeth to keep from crying out.

"Feel _who,_ exactly, little red?" he asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, as he backed her up against a nearby tree.

Sansa hit the rough bark, felt the scrape of it against her back as she struggled to catch her breath. She could not seem to think straight with his hands upon her, and was thankful when he finally relinquished his hold.

"You," she breathes into what little space remained between them— _close, so close…_ yet not actually touching. She slumped heavily against the tree trunk, not trusting that her legs had the strength to hold her up.

"Me?" His smirk widened into a toothy grin and he chuckled softly, lifting his hand as if he meant to brush his knuckles against her jaw.

"But—" his hand hovered still, near but not near _enough_ to her heated skin that hummed and ached and _begged_ for him "—I haven't even touched you…" He sighed, squeezed his ghosting fingers into a fist, and dropped it to his side. _"Yet."_

 _Yet._

Such a heavy little word.

 _Heavy._

Like the weight of his penetrating gaze as it pinned her in place—eating away at her reserve, as if he meant to devour her with just the deep grey of his predatory stare. Helplessly, Sansa fisted her hands in the folds of her skirt, unable to tear her eyes from his.

 _Grey, grey, grey…_

He braced his palm flat against the bark just above her head; Sansa could sense the twitch of his fingers, a scrape of calloused skin against the rough tree. He leaned closer then, so that his words hit her lips, engulfing her mouth in the hot, sweet embrace of his breath when he next spoke—the question a hushed, husky undertone that made that ache between her legs _sing—_

"Why have you come? You will find only trouble here, little red."

The deep, rich scent of him enveloped her, just as his voice had done. Leather and smoke, pine and something… _animalistic,_ that she couldn't… quite… put a name to… It seeped into the pores of her skin until she could _feel_ it—a part of her—wild and reckless, and pulsing like fire in her veins.

 _Fire and blood._

Sansa's heart was hammering. It beat a painful crescendo within her breast as she struggled to find her voice—trapped behind the lump that's wedged itself in her throat. She forced it down with a gulp, her voice cracking when she finally answered.

"I was searching for you."

 _"Don't."_ The command was part growl, part whimper. She sensed his twitching fingers again.

"But—" Sansa faltered. Her mouth felt as though it were full of sand, so dry from the heat pulsating between their bodies.

 _So hot…_

She flicked her tongue out to wet her lips, and—he _groaned_ —a low, harsh, _needy_ sound. His eyes flashed dark then; the blacks of his pupils swallowed up all of the grey as they traced the outline of her lips.

"What would you do, little red," he began, gaze hooded as it consumed her, voice the barest of rasps as his words ghosted across her tingling lips, "if I stole a kiss?"

Sansa didn't answer.

She couldn't.

She should have told him she'd slap his smug face, but only a soft whimper escaped past her parted lips. The fluttering in her stomach intensified—pleasure skirting along the fine edges of pain, and she shuddered violently beneath its insistent press.

His eyes softened, the grey returning to their depths as he continued to rake his gaze over her quivering body. Down over her hitching chest, then back up to settle on her lips once again. The hand braced above her came down to pinch a strand of her fiery hair between his fingertips.

"You're trembling so, love. Do I frighten you?" he asked, his tone still husky as his eyes narrowed on her throat, where her pulse stuttered wildly beneath her flushed skin.

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath, as he lifted the ends of her hair to his nose and inhaled deeply; another groan, softer this time, escaped him before he let her silken tresses slip through his grasp.

 _Touch me…_

How could she even begin to explain that it wasn't fear of _him,_ but of the feelings he evoked deep within her, that had Sansa shaking like a leaf in the breeze? She'd come here looking for answers, and had found only more confusion.

"A little," she admitted when at last she was able to speak.

His eyes flashed, then darkened again.

 _Cold._

"Good," he snapped, and pushed himself away from her with such abrupt force that she had to wonder if he truly _wanted_ to tear himself away.

But more than that—more than the wondering—there was an _ache_ that he left behind, one that Sansa had to suppress so she wouldn't grab onto him, to pull him back against her, to touch for _real_ this time…

He was walking away, heading deeper into the woods, no matter how Sansa's ache called for him to—

 _"Wait!"_ she cried, urging her shaking legs to move as she shoved herself away from the tree and hurried after him.

"I thought I told you to stay out of the woods," he tossed over his shoulder, not bothering—or perhaps simply unwilling, _unable_ —to look back.

"Who are you?" Sansa demanded. She'd never been one to be cowed, and she had no intentions of starting now—her traitorous body be damned!

He turned briefly, sparing her a glance as heated as all the others—a flash of fire to offset the ice in his voice. "I told you, no one of consequence."

"And yet you presume to order me around as if—" she grabbed for his hand to halt his departure. She did not manage to catch his hand in hers, but her skin brushed his—soft and rough, velvet sweeping over stone—and, _and—_

Whatever she'd meant to say is lost, the words dead on her lips as a current of energy rippled up her arm—raw and jarring—and it pulled the air from her lungs and—

 _Heavy._

Her feet rooted in place, she could not move, she could not speak or so much as _think_ —she could barely _breathe_ as he stopped mid-step and swung 'round to face her.

Disbelief—it was etched in his expression, his every mannerism. It clouded the grey of his eyes, so wide, as they flitted from her hand—still reaching for his, fingertips hovering _just so_ at his rapidly whitening knuckles—to her face, and Sansa realized with a sudden, satisfying clarity—

 _He feels it, too._


End file.
